The Meaning of Pain
by Salysha
Summary: After his defeat to Devil Jin, Hwoarang heads down a destructive path from which nothing can divert him.
1. Animus

**Disclaimer**: Tekken and Tekken characters are the property of Namco Limited. This is nonprofit fan fiction.

**Warnings**: Violence, angst, offensive language, one-shot OCs, and slight AU.

Hwoarang's ending in Tekken 5: Flames dancing, Devil Jin approaching, and the end-of-the-world music playing... In this, the daredevil grin of Hwoarang's has turned to a fiendish glower, and his mind is bent on scorching animus. The story spans the year between Tekken 5 and 6, with a focus on select events.

* * *

**The Meaning of Pain**

by Salysha

* * *

"_Your eyes are full of hate, 41. That's good. Hate keeps a man alive. It gives him strength."_  
_Quintus Arrius to Judah Ben-Hur_  
"_Ben-Hur" (1959)_

**Part 1 of 4: Animus**

The bar was sweltering, full of sweat and inexistent ventilation. Despite the remote location in one forgotten town and nondescript bar in the province of North Gyeongsang, South Korea, the premises were filled to the brim with spectators and participants from all corners of the world. It seemed, in fact, that Westerners had taken over the bar tonight, while the native Korean representation culminated to the slender young man who stood by and awaited his turn with a mixture of frown and indifference.

The youth's opponent, a freefighter with an impressive stature and an even more impressive track record, had taken one look at him and, along with the rest of his company, turned his attention to the ongoing fight.

The fight ended in a knockout: a real one, not a technical knockout. The crowd burst in cheers and a couple of hesitant boos as the unconscious fighter was dragged to recover in the back. Someone moved to sweep the floor hastily of any spilled fluids and garbage that the audience had managed to squeeze in through the cage holes as the umpire announced the fight results.

The audience drowned the voice of his microphone. They weren't interested in a match already finished; they were out for fresh blood. When some was on the menu, the crowd quieted.

"Jeff Knight, from the United States of America. Freestyle. Knight stands the champion for ten weeks straight, and looks like he'll stay with us a long time. Challenging: _Who-oh-rang_," the man pronounced the letters carefully, "native to Korea and hungry for victory. Practicer of taekwondo. Dark horse, so, gentlemen, place your bets carefully tonight."

It was almost comical, having such civil announcements, which mimicked those given in the more distinguished games. Honor among thieves and illegal fighters.

While someone cleaned the last of the trash, the fighters entered the cage and took positions on the opposing sides. It was the first time that Knight even bothered to look at his opponent properly. Slim build—extremely slim, compared to Knight's 6'2'' stature and weight of 185 pounds. Dressed in form-fitting denims and an elbow-length shirt, adjusting his gauntlets.

"Pretty boy. You any good?"

Hwoarang looked through the man.

"Don't speak English? Or just not talking?"

No response.

Knight snorted. This was what he had traveled to this godforsaken dump for? Korea had proven a disappointment so far, even if the karateka he had faced two weeks back had been a tough one. Then again, that one hadn't been native to this country; he had been some Japanese guy, looking for a purpose across the sea, just as Knight was. These Korean fighters—when would they learn that a sparring sport wasn't any good in the real arena?

Looked like this one needed a lesson. Frowning at him like there was no tomorrow, vying for the fight Knight was going to win.

One of Knight's travel companions, drunk to the gills, gripped the cage. "Pretty boy," he slurred. "_Why so serious_?"

Knight's posse broke in malicious laughter, while Knight snorted. Hwoarang paid no heed to the speaker, which fueled the man further.

"Hey**,** _ya— yan-foe_! I'm talkin' to you."

This time around, Hwoarang jerked his head at Knight. His eyes narrowed, as his fingers balled in a fist. His whole body tensed.

Knight frowned at the speaker. Dipshit. Any more Koreans present to hear, and they'd been lynched. "Shut your mouth," he growled. To his opponent, Knight gave an apologetic shrug as if to say, "Sorry, not my doing," but Hwoarang was ignoring him again, tuned in on the bloodthirsty chant of the crowd. Feeding off it.

The indifference ceased with a slam as the bell rang. Knight had expected a situation assessment the fighters around here seemed to prefer even in the ring, a bow even, but instead, a rock-hard kick to his rib cage slammed him against the wall. He was on his feet in no time, with a sudden realization that this might be the match he had been looking for.

* * *

It had seemed like the match the sanguinary audience had wanted, until they had realized this was for real and their cries had died out. By the time the fight came to an end, the silence was deathly. They had been taken aback by the sheer brutality before their eyes.

The little movements registered, down to Hwoarang clenching his fists. The spectators were unaware how the fresh cuts on his knuckles chafed against the protective gloves; instead, they were anxiously looking for signs that he had been affected by the match, but to their disturbance, they hardly found any. Knight, slammed into a corner of the cage, gave up on rising and battled unconsciousness. Hwoarang stood a distance away, staring at him emotionlessly, and the audience stared at Hwoarang. They were unsure if he was going to finish it, and even less sure they wanted to see the conclusion anymore.

The silence broke when Hwoarang made his final move. An almost imperceptible twitch traveled his jawbone, distorting his handsome features momentarily, and then...

He bowed.

"The winner is Hwoarang!"

The announcement brought the bar down to Earth, and the trance broke. Wild shouts filled the barroom again, and cheers boomed at the victor.

Hwoarang did not pay his respects to the audience: he gathered his belongings and headed for the exit. On his way, he stopped abruptly when he reached Knight's travel companion, in drunken shock over Knight's rout. When the man realized who stood beside him, his heart sank.

The few people who weren't after the bookmaker realized the broiling situation and made haste to back off, involuntarily forming ring around the two men.

Hwoarang stared at the cowering man intently, and the onlookers keyed in on the wordless exchange could have sworn he was going to make the man pay. Yet, when the tension got almost unbearable, he snorted and left without a word. Knight's companion, though not a timid man by trait, was left amazed in his wake, with only the foreign population and his beating heart for company.

Hwoarang was almost out of the door when someone called out to him.

"_Hwarang_!"

The man behind the event, an enterpriser in many trades that preferred moonshine rather than the light of sun, had stayed out of limelight and surfaced only now. "Your winnings," he said, and offered an envelope to Hwoarang with both hands.

"Keep it, Nam Young-kwan."

"This is yours," Nam repeated, and held out the envelope again. Nothing in his manner suggested he found the younger man's address discourteous.

"I will not have it. Goodnight."

Nam watched as Hwoarang bowed shortly and left the tumult of the bar behind. He verged on being malcontented at the abrupt departure, but then decided otherwise. If the winner didn't claim, it was more profit for him. It was poor business to argue over the quirks of others that worked in his advantage, even if it was peculiar not to claim one's rightful prize. It wasn't his worry, Nam decided, and retreated to his privacy once again.

Soon after Hwoarang bolted out, another Korean exited quietly. Unlike the other spectators, the elder man had no winnings to claim or losses to contest. He had stayed in the back, observing silently, and few had taken notice of him. The man looked at the receding rear light of the motorcycle thoughtfully before setting on his way and vanishing into the night just as swiftly.

**To Be Continued...**

* * *

The word that the drunken man was trying to utter was _ianfu_, comfort woman.  
"Why so serious?" was Joker's taunt in _The Dark Knight_ (2008).  
The spelling _Hwarang_ emulates the native Korean pronunciation of the name. The original names in the story do not refer to real persons.

**Many** **thanks** to **Gypsie** (Gypsie Rose) for the proofreading!

**Published** Oct 29, 2008.


	2. Estrangement

The next part is longer and richer in dialogue; this one is a mood-setter. Mood music: Theme for "Requiem for a Dream" (2000), also known as "Lux Aeterna," by Clint Mansell.

* * *

**Part 2 of 4: Estrangement**

The bike advanced half a mile before Hwoarang pulled over. Dirt road, no lights, no habitation, no passing traffic at this hour of the night... There was no one to see how Hwoarang doubled over, clutched his midriff, and was violently sick.

_God, it hurt so much._

The nausea passed and left behind only a torturous pounding in his head. Yet, as Hwoarang pushed himself up and swayed on his feet, a twitch of lips ghosted his face. He was back. The front of his skull was on fire, and he supposed the freefighter had done some real damage. His breathing hitched. _Oh yes, right there. That was it. _He couldn't keep his posture straight, but he dragged himself on his bike. Out of here, he'd bandage himself and then...

He was back.

* * *

Next morning, Baek was rearranging the mattresses in his dojang and inspecting the equipment. Truthfully, he would have preferred repose, but he refused to acknowledge the strain of a short night. He forced back a yawn that incessantly tried to escape and blinked his vision sharp. Even as he examined the ude makiwara—Baek did not subscribe to the pedantic separation of martial arts—and pondered if he should replace it with something less precarious, his mind drifted to the same subject it usually did: Hwoarang.

In his absence of two years, his best and brightest student had evolved from a gifted youth to a skilled man who wasn't ashamed of his abilities or hesitant to use them. Yet, something had happened that had turned the undaunted spirit to headstrong hellraising and put a mask on his student's face.

He had seen that mask slip only once: after the first cage match, which Hwoarang had lost. Hwoarang had told him he was going, and Baek had witnessed a match that had torn his heart out.

It hadn't even been competition. Hwoarang had gone to that fight too soon, too unprepared, and too delirious to fulfill some dark purpose that Baek sought to understand. It had been too soon, and he had been too weak. Afterward, when the fight was done and Hwoarang finished, Baek had so much as carried him home and kept vigil for the night.

And he had felt a deeper failure than during the endless hours in the hospital, waiting for Hwoarang to regain consciousness.

In the dead of the night, Hwoarang had awoken, frantic. He hadn't responded to any of Baek's soothing or realized where he was, and he had fought to escape. Baek finally managed to restrain him as gently as possible, and that was when Hwoarang had looked at him in open terror.

It had lasted for too long, long enough to alarm Baek, until a flicker of recognition had passed in the glazed eyes. Hwoarang had then ceased struggling and sunk limply on the bed. As Baek had released him, he had turned his back wordlessly and burrowed into the sheets, withdrawing himself into a tight bundle even though it had to hurt.

After that, the mask had stayed in place, and Hwoarang had returned under his tutelage. Truce was the word to describe their fragile bond. All was well to the outside eye; Hwoarang trained like a fiend, honing patterns relentlessly move after move, never complaining, never disputing Baek's instructions, even if he already had the technique to match the master's. He showed punctually and unfailingly, except when he disappeared for two days without an explanation, and that was when Baek knew... Knew that Hwoarang had gone out and would return in longer-than-usual sleeves to cover the marks and an air of coldness masking the bruising to his face, and treat them as air and deflect any questions with an amalgam of indifference and pretended obedience.

The truth tied Baek's hands effectively: Hwoarang didn't trust him anymore. Hwoarang was masterful at disguising it, but Baek _knew_. He could read the truth in his manner, and he could issue no blame. He had been around for a year without contacting Hwoarang; in twelve months of hardship, back from a coma, he had not passed word once that he was alive. It had never been a good time, the contact had been delayed... As they both knew, at the end of the day, Baek had no excuse.

Hwoarang was an adult, and an adult could not be ordered around, even if Baek sometimes wished otherwise or wished he had insisted early on that Hwoarang obey his elders rather than follow his heart.

There was a fine saying in English that Baek abided: _You've made your bed and now must lie in it._

* * *

Hwoarang materialized two days later and set out to train. As predicted, he wore a long-sleeved shirt under his uniform; a discourtesy to the dress code, perhaps. The high cheekbones betrayed streaks of darkened color. Baek observed his moves and noticed stiffness, subtle though the changes: the kicks didn't reach as high, and the moves lacked fluidity. Hwoarang seemed sore on the sides.

"Is something wrong, master?" Hwoarang had halted the pattern and now faced Baek, standing tall and defiant. The eye contact he maintained was bold and unwavering.

Baek sighed inwardly and shook his head. Just as Hwoarang had turned with an impeccable bow to the instructor, Baek spoke, "You fought well."

The pattern that Hwoarang had been about to commence never made it past the first move. Quick on the uptake, Hwoarang didn't react with a start; the move simply never finished or converted into another one. "I was unaware of your presence, master." The words were truthful and rolled off his tongue with cold precision.

Baek wanted to ask him about his injuries; the American hadn't been a street brawler, and he had known where to aim for damage, even if Hwoarang had saved himself miraculously before turning the tables into a vicious victory. But Hwoarang's manner was so forbidding, Baek simply found himself unable to penetrate it. He lacked the means to push past the civil rebuff.

Eventually, he only said, "You fought well." _But your attitude is all wrong, Hwoarang._

* * *

Ude makiwara is an upright, round training board used by karatekas for practicing strikes and kicks. It originates from Okinawa, Japan.

**Big thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Published** Jan 23, 2009.


	3. First among Equals

**Part 3 of 4: First among Equals**

He sometimes woke to a dread so strong, it threatened to paralyze him. It always left him drawing shaky breaths afterward. Tonight was one of such nights.

Hwoarang bolted up and started pacing. There weren't demons here, but it didn't hurt to be more alert and make sure for himself. He realized he was wringing his hands and forced himself to stop. He trod to the window and pried the curtain aside to look out. The moon greeted him with a pale shine; the neighborhood, with quietude. The city was asleep, for once, and mocking his alertness. Hwoarang rested his eyes on the sky.

The moonlight should have perturbed him: the scenery had been bathed in moonlight the night when... The thought didn't need finishing. Curiously, though, the moon soothed his mind and calmed his body. He relaxed against the wall and rested his eyes on the cityscape. His gaze swept the room as well, and the dark shapes remained motionless: familiar and friendly. Hwoarang left the window and returned to bed.

He hadn't known fright until the fight where Jin Kazama had revealed his true colors. That night, he had learned the meaning of fear. He trained to pay back now. A part of him knew he was doing well already: that he had grown to be a stronger, more apt, and more dangerous opponent than he had been. Another part knew he was not yet a match to the new, fiendish incarnation of Mishima blood that Kazama had become.

Yet another part, one that he tried to suppress and ignore to the deepest hell, knew that he was losing himself in the process. Hwoarang turned on his side. _Fool's thoughts._ He was fine; he was just the same, only better.

As the months had passed, he had understood why Kazama was always so quiet. It bothered Hwoarang mildly, but he had started to garner an understanding for that reticent, unrelenting, and withdrawn manner of his. When you detached yourself from others, it left you free to focus; it allowed you to amass aggression and channel it to the fullest; it left you free to quell sympathy and act without hesitance. He dared say he had a much better understanding of the workings of mind of the Mishima prodigy now.

Hwoarang turned on his side and studied the luster of the moonshine, which peeked through the curtains and bounced off as a reflection from the metal feet of the table. He really was losing his mind, thinking Kazama needed his understanding.

* * *

"Whose idea was it to take the bus? 'It'll be cheaper; it'll be easy, c'mon.' It was cheap and easy, and now we're lost!"

"It would have been fine, but the English signs seem to be scarce," another female voice piped in. Her voice was calmer and conciliatory. She figured Steve was going to take all of Christie's rage once they got to the hotel, and that fire didn't need any more fuel. Christie was bouncing restlessly, and Julia was afraid she'd escalate to _jinga_ yet and proceed to sweep the street with Steve. The poor man was already mortified enough at the scene they were making. Julia cleared her throat. "We'll take a cab. Agreed?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah..."

Next question was how to do it. The stream of cars was steady, and the cabs she saw all had different markings. In the end, Julia decided to take the most effective means, even if they were slightly unprincipled. She opened her braids and pocketed the glasses, stepped on the street, and tried to look pretty while bellowing, "Taxiii!"

Christie, on the other hand, wasn't finished. With Julia's momentary absence, she had no hindrances to unleash her full wrath on Steve. "You just assumed the entire world speaks English! Didn't you?"

"No, I didn't assume..." Hell, yeah, he had, but Christie was too upset to hear confessions. They should have stopped her from making that call home; she had been nearly hysterical since. Steve sighed. He should have come here by himself, if anyone. This was a fool's errand, but the girls had gotten it into their heads that to Korea they must come, and he had tagged along for the ride. He didn't think this was a good idea, but surely he had nothing better to do than roam around the world following the most scatter-brained ideas. Not that the girls were scatter-brained—he could feel their scowls at the thought—but coming here had been.

"Okay. I think I got us one." Julia's voice was like soothing balm. Julia was leaning over to converse with a cab driver. She showed the piece of paper that had their hotel address written down. Apparently, the negotiations were successful, as she gestured at them eagerly. Steve hauled their luggage to the back of the car, where the driver, in his no-nonsense manner, took them in his care. Steve hesitated a bit, but then left Julia to worry about the arrangements and climbed in the backseat with Christie.

The car took off under Julia Chang's guidance, and Steve leaned back in his seat and gave a sidelong glance to his right. "Hey," he tried.

"I'm sorry." Christie sounded miserable. She was hunched to herself, curled up a little. She seemed to be cold; the air was chillier than they had expected, and her coat was too thin. _So much for that 20 °C daytime average._

"It's all right," Steve said softly. He scooted over and then decided Christie wouldn't pull any moves on him in the car. He wrapped his arm around her and was delighted when she burrowed against him. "Shh... It's a bad start, so the rest will be easier."

Julia minded the store, so Steve could just take in the scenery. The occasional words he could read promised snacks and directions to governmental buildings or the airport. Looking around, he could see himself being very much alone here, and he was glad he had company.

"They said three months."

"Pardon?"

"Grandpa. They gave him three months."

"I thought— I thought they found something for now, to slow it down." The extent of Christie's distress was beginning to dawn on Steve. _It was "at least six months" when we left._

"It didn't work." Christie couldn't stifle a single sob before silent tears started falling.

Steve felt tightness in his throat, but he tried to mask it. "Y'know what them quacks say. They're full of cock, gab like they knew any be'er..." Christie didn't really know. She couldn't understand half of the words, but Steve's tone was soothing, and she decided he was being comforting. She pressed herself onto him.

Julia tried to turn on the front seat to hear the conversation, but Steve's eyes shot a warning at her, and she turned to look ahead. She would be filled in later. Steve squeezed Christie tighter, and she let him.

They had been driving in silence, which was only broken by the faint car horns and the quiet tune of a local radio station, when Christie spoke again. "I miss Eddy."

"What a thing to say when another bloke's holdin' ya."

Christie gave a wan chuckle, but she couldn't help a sniff.

"S'gonna be fine, you'll see," Steve finished and felt Christie nod against him. An affectionate smile crossed his lips, not to mention it was kind of flattering to have an attractive woman cling onto you like that... It was then that he noticed the driver was giving him a firm look through the rearview mirror. Maybe it was a little impolite; maybe it wasn't the norm here, to go holding girls like that. Steve straightened up, but left his arm around Christie.

"S'a bit parky 'ere," he explained. The driver nodded solemnly and fixed his eyes on the road again.

Eventually, they arrived at the hotel, and Steve realized how far off course they had been. As Julie paid the ride, which amounted to an indecent sum of wons, he glanced at the Hangeul-written hotel name ruefully, as if trying to force a denial out of it, but the text stayed silent. _Nope. Still can't read you_.

* * *

The plan was to track down Baek Doo San, and through him, Hwoarang. Steve had Hwoarang's number, but their text messages and calls had gone unanswered for weeks, so they had to resort to the Doo San plan. One could assume he still ran an enterprise, so the local equivalent of the yellow pages should track him down. Now, as the vastness of the task was beginning to dawn on them, Steve was having more second thoughts than ever. It wasn't a small country, or a small city, or a task that had good chances of succeeding. They had all felt so connected back at the tournament, like they had known one another forever, but now they realized none of them even knew by what name "Hwoarang" fared in everyday life...

But the devil's children had the devil's luck, and so did the odd assembly. By luck, they had settled in a good hotel, where the concierge found one Baek Doo San running a taekwondo dojang downtown. With a politely impartial look on his face, he escorted them to a taxi, taking no heed of their faint protests and assurances that they would find the place themselves if given the address. The concierge ushered them in and communicated the address to the driver.

Here they were, standing before the two-storey building that hosted a lineup of stores. Nothing gave away that this was the place where they were meant to be, but the cab driver had pointed to this door several times before driving off with a few parting words. They assumed he had said goodbye or bid good day, but there really was no telling...

"Shall we go in, girls?" Steve suggested.

"Don't 'girl' us," Julia scoffed. She was late in retorting, though; Christie had all but pushed past them and yanked the door open before either of them had the chance to react, and the others were forced to follow her suit.

"After you, my lady," Steve said to Julia, who gave him a withering look: one not entirely without humor. Steve sighed to himself. He just couldn't do right by either of _his_ girls. Mindful to wipe the smirk off his face, Steve entered the building.

It was the right place, and they located Baek Doo San quickly. The stern-faced instructor with graying hair was supervising the rows of youths, who practiced kicks in perfect synchronization. The company of three straight out of the west easily stood out from the crowd. Baek spotted them, froze for one stunned moment, and then barked orders and clapped his hands. The youths dispersed obligingly, with curious glances thrown in their direction.

Baek approached them, and the stern face eased into a welcome. Smiling wasn't his wont, but the look he accorded them was friendly. "Good day," he bid in a grave tone, tasting the English words, and bowed at them. "I know you from the tournament. What brings you here?"

Ugh, here was that bowing again. Everyone did that here, and Steve had no idea how to respond. He was more a "shake hands, pat backs" kind of a bloke. He settled for something of an awkward, low nod, and hoped to make up for it with a respectful tone. "Good day, Sir. I'm Steve Fox, and these are Julia and Christie." He could already feel the girls' scowls for not introducing them properly. He just couldn't do right by these ladies, and he was growing very self-conscious here. "We were wondering—"

"Is Hwoarang here?"

Baek raised a brow mentally, but Christie's sincerity melted him on the spot. This was most curious. "_Hwarang?_ Yes, he is. He is at the back... He practices in private. I shall let him know he has visitors." Baek nodded gravely. He paused to utter corrective instructions to one of the students and headed out toward the door at the back of the hall. He had meant for the three to stay put, but they followed him instead.

Baek opened the door that led to a private room, smaller in size and secluded from the clamor of the main hall. Steve, Julia, and Christie followed in tow – and stopped in their tracks upon the intense display before their eyes.

Hwoarang was alone in the room, practicing on a punching bag. He was dressed in a white uniform, except his shirt was tossed on the floor. His exposed upper body gleamed against the light, and his hair, a duller shade of red than before, was glued to his scalp. The white sweatband kept it from falling on his eyes. He was in the middle of a complex series of forms, which morphed from one into another with dazzling speed. They were more intended to deal damage than show aptitude in the martial art. Loud cries, _kiai_, accompanied the kicks he dealt mercilessly, all the while changing position and the direction of his attacks.

It was the sheer intensity and the raw, unforgiving blows he kept dealing at power far too exhausting for mere practice—even the loud cries, unbefitting him—that took their breaths away. While always dead serious about fighting and undeterred from winning, he had always maintained a cheerful, confident outlook when engaging in his favorite sport; his trademark had been the look that told the opponent he was going to win, and he would bestow that look on anyone long before the match would start.

Hwoarang brought some pride of his taekwondo skills into the practice then. He jumped off his feet and brought about a dizzying, swirling jump, from which he landed on a kneeling position almost impossibly. He stopped the bag from its flight with a fist of iron. He had never been one to use his hands much before... He remained in a hunched position, breathing fire and brimstone, immobile except for the slight shaking.

It was then that Baek, too, woke from his transfixion, and realized the presence of the three youngsters. He had wished to speak to Hwoarang in private first, but it was too late now.

"Hwoarang?" Julia called out, as she stepped forward along with Steve and Christie.

Hwoarang spun out of his stance like shot. He did a double take at the three. "What THE FUCK are you doing here?"

This wasn't the reception they had expected. Steve was the one to open his mouth, "Umm, mate—"

"_Hwarang!_"

Hwoarang received his second shock within seconds. Baek emerged and went to him. He addressed him in fast speech, which left the listeners guessing its content. They only saw Hwoarang's reaction: his posture froze and his facial muscles tightened, but he didn't speak a word against Baek. Then Baek fell quiet, and Hwoarang turned his attention to Steve and company. "I apologize. I was surprised," he said stiffly and tilted his head. Baek spoke a few more words to him in Korean before they exchanged parting words and bowed at each other.

Jaw clenched, virtually shooting daggers after Baek's departure, Hwoarang took long to take notice of anyone else. As the door closed and they were left in private, he woke to the three pairs of eyes on him. He ducked to the floor for his shirt. Even as the shirt came back on, followed by the uniform top, Julia couldn't take her eyes off him.

"Your arm...," she breathed with a gulp and looked at Hwoarang in incomprehension, but she didn't meet a sympathetic gaze.

"Yeah, what about it?" Hwoarang said harshly.

"What happened?"

"Jin Kazama happened."

Even when Julia had been the one to speak outright, they had all seen it: Hwoarang's arm from the shoulder down to the elbow was grazed horribly. The skin was torn and mutilated, and gleamed red at the absence of a properly healed epidermis. The muscles were there just the same, but their covering was gruesome. It looked like he had been in an accident.

Steve cleared his throat. "We didn't come to stare. Sorry. You gave us a startle there, Hwoarang. You're probably wondering what we're doing here..." Dark, piercing eyes landed on him as soon as he started speaking, and his voice faded away under their scrutiny. He was fretting over nothing, but damned if Hwoarang wasn't making him uncomfortable. Something was off; they were off, and they shouldn't have come here. Here they were, though, and so, Steve ventured on, "We tried to let you know we were coming, but there was no answer on your mobile."

Hwoarang didn't lose the strict expression, but he let his gaze sweep over them all, and the look he accorded them wasn't unfriendly, even if it wasn't happy, either. "And so, here you are." The slight change in his tone for the better made the visitors forget he didn't offer any explanation for the unanswered calls.

"And here we are."

Hwoarang turned on his heel abruptly, leaving the three exchanging startled looks, but he merely went to the wall side and picked up a towel, and then returned to them, scrubbing the back of his neck. His soaked hair fell down as he removed the band, affording his forehead and hair a quick brush, until he fastened the band back on. While he was doing this, everyone else waited quietly, still standing on their feet at the lack of chairs, or being directed to any place with seating, for that matter. There was no question who was in control.

"So...," Hwoarang finally said. "What brings you here? It's a long way out for a courtesy call."

Steve glanced at the girls, waiting to see if they would want to take the speaking role. Thankfully, Julia stepped up.

"You must know what's happening in Japan, with the Mishima Zaibatsu... and what they're doing now, with Jin running the operation." Julia didn't miss the hardened look on Hwoarang's face or the fact that he drew himself straight at hearing Jin's name. She wasn't deterred. "We all have concerns. We're going over to the Zaibatsu headquarters and confronting Jin Kazama. We want you to come with us."

Hwoarang snorted, but before anyone could be affronted, Christie took the floor. "Eddy's gone missing. He was working for Jin, after the tournament. I haven't heard a word in weeks."

A look of apprehension crossed Hwoarang's face, but then the mask settled. "Eddy Gordo can take care of himself. I don't think—"

"You don't understand! He did it because of me. My grandpa is dying; he doesn't have much left. The Zaibatsu could find the cure for his illness; they have the technology—" Christie was breaking into tears, and her voice was rising. None of this was going like it should have been; they had thought Hwoarang would be at least happy to see them, but he was as friendly as a gargoyle. "We think he's doing Jin's dirty work. It has to be something illegal and dangerous; why else would he go missing like that? Unless something's happened..."

Hwoarang stared on the wall. The towel didn't seize its sweeping, but it slowed down in pace. Julia and Steve glanced at each other uncertainly; none of this made sense. Hwoarang didn't make sense. Christie's beautiful face was marred by tears, and she dug frantically into her purse for a tissue.

Slowly, Hwoarang spoke, "You are going to Japan because the Mishima Zaibatsu might have a cure for your grandfather. You?" he asked Julia. "I thought you got what you wanted the last time?"

"I did get my data, but Hwoarang, I am concerned. This warmongering Jin is waging... it could get too much. They are talking about an actual war—"

"Do-gooder. You?" he asked Steve.

"I'm... just available, I guess. You'd be surprised how far budget flights get you... They're right, Hwoarang. Someone needs to do something. And Christie's grandpa doesn't have much time. She asked me to help, and here I am."

"The regular white knight...," Hwoarang muttered sotto voce, loud enough for Steve to hear and for an angered flush to rise to his cheeks. "I'm not sure what you all came here for. Japan's over that way; you got off the plane too late."

"We know that—"

"And once you get to Japan, just find the lion's den. It's a company like any other. Book a meeting with Kazama, if you think that'll do you good. Or ask one of his secretaries; he's bound to have a legion of pretty skirts running around him now."

"We know that," Julia said patiently. This wasn't working; the conversation was taking them further from any friendliness, and something was so off about Hwoarang; he didn't even seem to be hearing them. Or, rather, he heard them, but didn't care to listen. "Jin Kazama doesn't accept any meetings. He won't return messages. He won't accept calls. There is no way to reach him. We know because we have tried..."

"We are thinking of a more direct approach," Steve said. "He still goes out in public, but he always has bodyguards with him. You'll know them; our 'friends' from the tournament. Eddy, too, if the rumor holds true."

Hwoarang blinked. "You are planning to kidnap the head of the Mishima Zaibatsu?"

"Of course not! No, nothing like that. No. We're thinking if we could get alone with him, just for a while, he'd listen and come to his senses..."

"Very likely..."

"Stop sneering! It's not a bad plan, and it's the only one left. We don't know Jin Kazama that well, but he isn't evil; there could be a million reasons why he won't see any of us and why he's doing what he does, but just in case, if he won't see us, we'll stop him and make him listen."

Hwoarang couldn't get over this. Somewhere down the line, Julia Chang had become an anarchist, and apparently Steve and Christie had lost their good judgment. Maybe they did have some idea there, a very small morsel of his mind would admit, and the daredevil spirit pleased him, but they were on a hopeless mission. "What do you need me for?"

"Jin's got bodyguards. Nina. Eddy, most likely. Someone else. Where he goes, they go. Three or four bodyguards, at all times. If... if he won't talk to us, we'll have to take them down. We think we can—_we have to_—but Jin's there, too. It's too much for us."

It was beginning to dawn on Hwoarang. His face finally gave away the emotions he felt. All eyes were on him, and he was painfully aware of that. Couldn't they just have left him alone? He rubbed at his head, and his visage contorted.

"Hwoarang, please think about it," Christie pled before he had the chance to reply. "Please. We need you."

"Why me?"

"There isn't anyone else; no one wants to get involved. We can't ask just anyone—it has to be someone we can trust..." In other words, they needed someone they could bond with; someone their age.

It wasn't enough. "Why me?"

Julia's voice was even. It was easier for her to admit this than it would have been for Steve, who seemed about to be breaking at the seams. "We can handle anyone else, but we can't match Jin. None of us can. We tried, and he beat us all at the tournament, even before... _that thing_." She hesitated. "Hwoarang..."

...she paused and played their ace...

"You're the only one to ever defeat him."

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"A lot of good that's done for me," Hwoarang choked. He rolled up his sleeve and flashed the scarred flesh at them. His voice was thick, but he recovered quickly. "I can't help you."

"What? No—"

"Hwoarang, why—?"

"I can't help you. Don't ask me. I suggest you forget about it, too. Go home." Hwoarang started past them to the door, and they were too stunned to hinder him. Out of all the answers they had hypothesized, an outright no had never been one of them. At the door, Hwoarang turned back. "Christie?"

Christie perked up, hopeful.

The look on her face was like a painful stab to Hwoarang's heart, but he steeled himself to say the only thing he could. "I'm sorry about your grandfather. I really am. But don't ask me." He averted his gaze.

Nothing was amusing, yet the way the four of them crowded the small room was almost comical. Be it due to the long journey or the exhaustion or the despair, Christie started crying again, and sent the men squirming. Steve leaned in quickly to Julia and whispered to her, "Let me talk alone with him." Julia left with Christie in her care. She sent a disappointed, quizzical look at Hwoarang as they exited, and he automatically took a step back into the hall to give them room to leave.

The door closed, and Steve and Hwoarang were left alone. Steve bit his lip; he wished Hwoarang was more forthcoming, but when he wasn't, he still had to do this. The men edged closer to each other. Hwoarang was back to sporting the cold, forbidding look; Steve, anxious to talk. "Mate... are you taking something?"

"What's supposed to mean?"

"Are you on something? Using? Like, drugs or something?"

"What?" Hwoarang sent a scathing look at him, but didn't budge away.

"Look... I'm not happy to be saying this, but you're up the wall. This isn't you." Steve couldn't hide it: he had been pissed off, but he was growing more concerned by the minute. The fact that Hwoarang didn't retort was beginning to freak him out. "Something's wrong with you. If it's because of something you're doing... _Get out while you can_." Steve forced himself to look for Hwoarang in the eye, but he didn't make any connection. The dark eyes blazed back at him affectionlessly.

Steve turned to leave.

"I'm gonna go, and we're gonna try this crazy plan. You don't have to come, even when you'd about triple the chances of anything good coming out of this. But... don't go down that street. Get yourself together."

He said the words over his shoulder, but he couldn't walk away like this. He couldn't just turn his back on Hwoarang, who was a friend, even if he wasn't acting like one. He turned around fully and stifled a gasp at how different Hwoarang looked to him now. He looked painfully desolate—confused, even—and obviously because of his words. Steve appealed once more to the one weakness he knew Hwoarang had for sure: pride. More specifically, pride in his prowess at fighting. "Julia's right, though. If it went down to that, none of us would stand a chance against Kazama. The fucker swept the floor with me, last we fought." Steve shrugged; he had said it out loud now. He gave a rueful non-grin and headed for the door.

"Steve..."

"Yah?"

"I'm not taking a damn thing. And I wish you wouldn't go because he's just gonna throw you out, maybe slap you around. You aren't gonna win a damn thing; this is bigger than you."

"It's a fool's errand, but don't worry about it. Julia's just being a rebel leader, and Christie's worried sick. At least I'm the sane one."

Hwoarang snorted. "Right."

For a moment, it seemed like the old Hwoarang, and Steve grinned. "See you around? At the next tournament, if there'll be one?" The grin died on his face. Hwoarang had turned heel and gone back to the punching bag he had been abusing earlier. "See you?"

"Take care, Fox."

As Steve left, Hwoarang leaned against the heavy punching bag. Nothing would have pleased him more than pay Kazama back with interest, but he wasn't ready. He drew a fist back and landed a strike so hard on the bag, his entire brain felt shaky.

He wasn't ready, but he would be. And then... Jin Kazama would learn the meaning of pain.

* * *

20 °C is 68 °F.

**Much thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Published** April 28, 2009.


	4. Meeting Face to Face

**Part 4 of 4: Meeting Face to Face**

The din and commotion of the crowd were nearly overpowering. The loudest and drunkest were banging the sides of the cage, at least until they went after another drink and were discreetly extricated from the premises. The babel of viewers and investors found a perfectly reasonable excuse, in the end: it was the final match, and all the bets were in. A form of supremacy would be solved tonight.

Hwoarang listened to the pandemonium of noise and cheer with surprising disinterest. The avid attention was heart-warming and mildly intriguing, but it didn't really matter. The fight, however, occupied his full attention, and the singular purpose made all the commotion fade to little more than Muzak.

He had long since realized the key to these fights: it was the fight that counted, and the ulterior motives that had driven him to sign up for this had become inconsequential. The long-term fancy of a payback had been ill equipped to compete with the reality of adrenaline rush and ensuing onslaught of endorphins. Even this fight made little difference, in the end; he wasn't desperate for the money, nor was he in it for the laurels, pitch-black though his wreath might be instead shining in gilded green. This was... a hobby. Hwoarang's lips curved momentarily before he foundered into detachment again.

The umpire motioned to him, and Hwoarang sauntered over to the cage. He threw his roll bag on the bench outside the cage, warned, "Don't let anyone steal my shit," and entered. The door closed behind him with a click.

His opponent had already been shepherded in. Jacques Salazar, better known in the outposts as Jackal, had strayed from the straight and narrow long ago, and played the part without remorse. He wasn't liked; no buddies of his showed for support, and he couldn't have cared less. Jacques got the job done: he had run undefeated so far and had no reason to assume this night would be any different. He measured Hwoarang with his eyes and deemed the opposition... not much.

"Hey, pretty boy."

Silently, Hwoarang snorted. Another one of these.

"_Scared_?" Jacques inquired and slapped a hand to his thigh.

Hwoarang looked through him. So far, he wasn't hearing anything interesting. He belatedly wondered how Salazar had such a Bryan Fury -esque feel to him, but he shrugged at the thought.

"I'm talking to you, pretty boy. Worried?" When his jabs failed to elicit any reaction, Jacque grew vexed. Not rising to the bait he understood, occasionally; language barrier, maybe; complete dismissal, like he was nothing, never. He changed approach. "You are a pretty one... Maybe, once this is over, I'll show you a good time. Tap that—"

"We can proceed— Why are you still wearing a shirt?" the umpire interrupted and frowned at Hwoarang. "This is like pro-boxing; the big names go bare-chested."

It wasn't an issue with Jacques, who had entered the ring in monochrome fatigues bottoms, but Hwoarang hadn't been in the loop with the code. He matched the umpire's glare with a hateful glower. His expression contorted in distaste, but then he started peeling his shirt off. The gauntlets made the task laborious, but he didn't say a word. He was down to pulling the shirt along his arms, when the reaction came.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Jacques blurted out. The exposure of the upper arms had revealed the extensive scarring on one side, angry enough to still look fresh. Jacques was gaping, and the umpire looked apprehensive as well. "That's disgusting. Cover it up," he said in dismay and addressed the umpire. "I don't care what he fights in."

Without realizing it, Jacques had dropped the earlier act and taken Hwoarang's side. Now he knew, of course, which spot to work on, but his reaction had been surprisingly human: shock and sympathy. The umpire hesitated and looked outside of the ring for support. At permission, he nodded to Hwoarang, who began pulling the shirt back on wordlessly, impervious to the whispers of the crowd. His head had already disappeared into the shirt when the sight he had just witnessed sunk in.

He pulled the shirt back on as fast as he could, but the fractions of seconds amassed, and it was far too long before his head finally cleared from the cloth. He stared at the ringside like shot, just outside the cage, but what he had seen was no longer there. He yanked the hems in place, but his eyes searched the ringside.

Jacques noticed something was amiss. "The hell's wrong with you...?" he mumbled and backed up a step.

The umpire was blind, and he proceeded with the announcements. The match was about to start, but Hwoarang didn't pay attention to the introductory tripe. His mind was racing, but he was getting nowhere. The fight was about to commence. The umpire was asking them if they were ready. He was just about to ring the bell...

"I quit." Hwoarang turned on his heels and charged for the door. "Out of my way." He pushed the man guarding the door away and grabbed his bag.

Hell broke loose once the stupefaction of the crowd dispersed. Voices filled the air, arguing over the money bet on the match and what the shock forfeit meant. Scuffles broke out, and amid the raised voices and fracas, Hwoarang pushed his way through determinedly. Some tried to stop him as he passed them, but Hwoarang paid no heed to them and shoved their hands off. He forced his way clear of the mass moments before reaching the back door and exiting the building.

Out on the back alley of the club, he stopped to draw a breath and look around him. There was no one there. He inhaled breathlessly and forced himself to look more closely, but no matter how he looked to and fro, the alley was clear. Only far out did he see a few people out having a stroll and a smoke, but even they left and returned to another building.

Hwoarang made himself control his breathing and keep the alarm at bay. He also wished he could forget about having come here in the first place; he had done it this time by abandoning the match. Now, he was standing alone in a back alley, holding a bag stupidly in his hand.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" a voice came behind him, coupled by more creaks of the door.

Hwoarang turned to see the speaker and his company of three, and berated himself for having let his guard down. He really was losing his mind. "I don't think that is any of your concern." He strove for neutrality.

"I bet a lot of money on you, and then you turned chicken."

Hwoarang was well aware how the three were spreading, forming a circle around him, but he kept his eyes on the ringleader. He didn't know the guy, but he had seen him around and knew this was trouble. He was in it for one to four, and none of the four seemed to be rookies.

"I can't say I cared, but I have things to do. I say we skip this round. You go your way; I go mine." Hwoarang articulated the words carefully.

"I don't think so," the man spat.

Not that Hwoarang had thought for a second that any of these would go for it. The chance to pursue the hallucination that had brought him here had passed solidly, and he was left to pay for it. At least they still kept the knives stashed out of sight. Hwoarang raised his roll bag deliberately, eyes fixated on the ringleader, and tossed it aside. The bag hit the wall with a soft thud. "What are you waiting for?"

"_Oy..."_

In a flash, the balance of power turned around. A third party had entered the game and dealt a vicious kick to the man at the back of Hwoarang. Hwoarang wasted no time: he charged the leader and leapt in front of him. Momentarily stunned by the proximity, Hwoarang's jab hit him in the face, and he stumbled backward. He made it just in time to detect the kick from the right-hand man. The kick missed his jaw, but landed on his upper arm painfully, and Hwoarang groaned. The thud he made landing on the asphalt added to the spasms of agony.

The right-hand man moved to intercept him without delay, but Hwoarang had been galled now. He kicked the man as hard as he could in the ankle, satisfied at the howl and subsequent sinking to the ground he got. He spun to his feet, just as the leader jumped him. This time, Hwoarang stopped him by raising his leg swiftly and striking him in the chest with his foot. The impact made him sway dangerously, but he defied gravity and retained his balance. The gamble bought him time to find his footing again.

As the ringleader made his next move, he suddenly comprehended he was getting a triumphant you-shouldn't-have-done-that look from Hwoarang, who bounced off his feet and amassed momentum for a grueling onslaught of kicks; once and for all, he established the difference between a street brawler who had cut it and a cast-iron taekwondoka. The last kick from Hwoarang incapacitated him and landed him gasping for breath on the ground. Without wasting time, Hwoarang reversed directions and delivered a leisurely kick to the right-hand man's midriff while he was still slogging his way up.

Hwoarang straightened up to catch his breath and coughed. He then strolled over to the leader, who was clenching his nose in a fist in the midst of heavy panting. Hwoarang bent his knees and crouched on his side. His expression wasn't pleasant, despite the velvety voice. "How about you fuck off?"

Hwoarang rose and looked down on the man, who stared back with all the hate in the world. He had no choice but to acknowledge his defeat, though, and with a look of wrath, he barked orders to his companions, who gathered themselves one by one and exited in shame in his tow. Eventually, they disappeared from sight, and the alley was clear again.

All the while, Hwoarang hadn't missed the combat that had taken place behind him, or the cries of pain. He hadn't turned to look once; he knew his back had been covered. Now, he stood silently, still gazing at the empty alleyway before him. "It was you."

"Yes."

Hwoarang inclined his head as if to nod to himself. He hadn't been seeing things. He had only seen the dark bangs and dark gaze beneath the hood at the ringside in passing and instantly... he had known. Moments passed until he finally tore his eyes off the trifling alleyway and turned around to face Jin Kazama.

"How did you find me?"

"You aren't hiding," Jin said and raised a brow. The hood of his black coat hadn't even fallen off during the fight, but he lowered it now. "And the Zaibatsu has the means of tracking down people."

Hwoarang snorted. "Figures."

Jin inclined his head, as though he had been paid a compliment.

"I thought you had bodyguards that never leave your side."

"They're here... somewhere," Jin said and gestured vaguely. "And they are making sure more don't come."

Hwoarang nodded and looked at Jin out of the corner of his eye.

It appeared Jin had been doing some scrutiny himself. "Your arm... you didn't take the surgery." His tone was no longer as placid.

Hwoarang's eyes flashed. "It was you. I knew it! I don't need your charity."

"It isn't charity. The Mishima Zaibatsu has extra securities, as the sponsor... it goes with the tournament."

"And you decide who gets offered the extra."

A silence followed his remark, until Jin finally said, "...Yes."

Hwoarang averted his eyes and shook his head, distracted. Of the ways he had imagined them meeting again, this one hadn't crossed his mind. The commotion of the club no longer carried outdoors, and a light breeze was blowing. All in all, it was quite tranquil. "Why are you here?" he said at last.

It seemed Jin had been waiting for the opener. He stuck a hand inside his coat, and for a moment, Hwoarang tensed involuntarily. He forced the reaction at bay, and then Jin produced a white letter and handed it to him.

"What's this?" Hwoarang asked. The envelope was sealed and only had his name written neatly on top.

"It is your personal invitation to the King of Iron Fist Tournament 6, one month from now."

Hwoarang studied the letter in his hands. "And you came all the way over here to give me this? Don't you have stamps in Japan anymore, or was it just too much money to get one?"

Jin merely raised a brow at him.

Hwoarang looked at the letter, but the more he thought about it, the steadier his resolve became. It almost saddened him, but his path was laid out for him. "No, thanks. I'm not interested," he said and tore the unopened letter in two and again in two. He scrunched the pieces into a ball and cast it on the street on top of all the other trash that was there. He was done with this gauntlet.

Jin sighed. "I thought you might be stubborn, and so I brought you another one." He reached into his coat pocket and dug up an exact copy of the first letter.

"You brought _two_?" Hwoarang was too stunned to inflict any violence on the letter.

"Don't destroy it. I don't have any more," Jin cautioned. He looked out into the sky in thought. "It is time I leave. Think about it," he said and turned to go.

Hwoarang's recall stopped him after only a few steps. "Wait a minute. Hold on."

Jin turned around.

"Why?" Hwoarang flashed the letter in his hand.

"I wish to see you at the tournament," Jin replied solemnly.

"Why me?"

"Does it make a difference to you?"

"I need to know, Jin."

Jin faced him, but then he looked away in the distance. "I have a price on my head. My father's line wants me dead; my mother, they got already. Truth be told, I feel the same way about them. Half the people at the tournament will want vengeance on me for reasons real and imagined; the other half are simply greedy. A few will claim friendship. I would have at least one person there who won't stab me in the back. No matter how much you hated me, you would do so openly and stab me up front." Jin's voice sounded a little sad.

Hwoarang, in turn, could only blink. He was taken aback by the underhanded recognition, not to mention Jin had spoken more than he had in all the time they had been acquainted. He really didn't know what to say.

Jin seemed to know there was nothing more to say. "I hope to see you." Jin lifted the hood to cover his face. He threw Hwoarang one last veiled gaze and inclined his head. Then, he spun on his heel so fast his coat flapped.

Hwoarang knew Jin was somewhat evil, or so everyone kept telling him. Yet, that final look of Jin's was etched on his mind. Dark hood covering the dark features, the jet-black coat... Hwoarang couldn't help feeling he had gazed at the tortured soul of Anakin Skywalker for just a moment.

Jin had already disappeared from sight. Hwoarang turned to look at the letter in his hand, but without breaking the envelope open, there was little he could deduce from its appearance alone. For a moment, he considered chucking the letter on the ground, but then... he couldn't do it. He didn't want to anymore.

He looked at the empty alleyway for guidance, but nothing gave him a clue about what he should do. Yes, as he stood alone in the alley, his eyes kept drifting back onto the envelope.

Suddenly, his lips curled. Unto the breach, once more. He would see the tournament through, and he would emerge as the victor yet.

**THE END**

* * *

**Concluding Notes:**

Movie allusions in this chapter: _Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith_ (2005) and _The Jackal_ (1997). _UFC_, mentioned in one review in relation to cage fights—sorry, haven't seen. I had decided on Jin's looks in the chapter long before the official Tekken 6 images were published; consequently, the long coat look was slightly surprising.

Thanks to all who have reviewed and followed up on the story! I appreciate it. Be sure to leave feedback and make my day. Perhaps I will see you at my future stories...? Thanks for reading!

The name of this story, _The Meaning of Pain_, was a play on Devil Jin's taunt, "Kyoufu wo oshiete yarou," subtitled "Fear the wrath of God," meaning 'I will teach you the meaning of fear.'

* * *

**Sincere thanks** to **Gypsie** for proofreading the entire story!

**Published** October 6, 2009.


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